


off to the races

by inkk



Category: Megadeth
Genre: Cross-Post, Dave Mustaine's Ego, Fist Fights, Hand Jobs, M/M, Prompt Fill, david ellefson's canonical hatred of being called 'junior', mild blood/injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: Mustaine grins. His teeth are blindingly, horribly white against the red. “You want me to beg, Junior?”
Relationships: David Ellefson/Dave Mustaine
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	off to the races

**Author's Note:**

> **Written as a gift for wattato_ for Ficmas in July 2020!** ([x](https://www.rockfic.com/viewstory.php?title=off%20to%20the%20races&storyid=34575&numchapters=1&category=Megadeth&author=inkk&m=f))  
> The prompt was 'Dave Mustaine ,David Ellefson (Megadeth): Fight between the guitarist and the bassist isn’t that uncommon, especially when Dave is drunk. But this time, David gets the upper hand...'
> 
> uhh.. more angry handjobs, anyone?  
> this one was written very quickly, and even i can admit that it's weird and ragged around the edges -- sorry about that. i might get around to editing it later.  
> no specific era, canon doesn't exist.  
>  _PTW for minor violence, sexual activity while intoxicated, lack of verbal consent, and a slight tinge of homophobia._

+

David Warren Ellefson puts up with a lot of shit.

A _lot_ of shit.

A heap of shit. A mountain of shit. A landslide of shit. A metric fuckton of shit.

When it comes to Mustaine, Dave has learned that it's to be expected. No matter what form the shit takes — whether it be a drunken fit of rage, a strange bout of depression, or a three-day smack binge — there’s always more of it to put up with.

So Dave does. He puts up with it when Mustaine rants about Lars Ulrich. He puts up with it when Mustaine shows up at his apartment at three in the morning looking for someone to fuck. And when Mustaine shows up to rehearsal piss-drunk at nine PM, guess what?

He puts up with it.

Usually.

Tonight, though… Tonight, Dave is fucking exhausted. He’s tired beyond tired. He’s already nearing the absolute end of his wits with the bitching and moaning and half-assed guitar noodling, and when Mustaine whips out a magazine and starts ripping into whichever stupid Rock Beat Magazine interview Kirk Hammett did last week, he nearly sees red.

Mustaine’s slumped into the couch as he reads the article aloud; the magazine hides his face from view, but Dave knows his lip is curled into a sneer as he digs his claws in. He’s been narrating for the past ten minutes, taking merciless potshots at the interviewer, the poster photos, and Hammet’s playing alike.

The last straw, though, is when he launches into a lisping, stammering, vocal impression of Kirk’s responses. Dave’s grip tightens around the pick in his hand, feeling the warm plastic dig into his palm.

“Who gives a flying shit about Kirk Hammett?” he snaps, interrupting mid-sentence.

Mustaine pauses long enough to snort. “The fuck crawled up your ass and died, Junior?” 

And _fuck_ , there it is again: that godforsaken fucking nickname. Courtesy of Mustaine and friends, Dave hears it every single day, echoed back at him through the mouths of every single fan, photographer, and interviewer he meets.

Mustaine carries on with his lambasting, and Dave feels his jaw clench minutely. He fixes his gaze on one of the baseboards across the room.

_Junior._

As if he’s some weak, naïve little tagalong. Just some uneducated, fresh-off-the-turnip-truck kid from Nowheretown, USA. The useless sidekick.

Another minute, another mocking impression. Nick is still sitting motionless behind his kit, drumsticks held loosely in one hand as he and Marty exchange a palpably uncertain glance.

Dave abruptly loosens his grip. The pick falls, landing silently on the dirty carpet.

“Do you ever fucking hear yourself speak?”

His words ring out through the room, cutting the atmosphere like a knife. It’s as if all the air in the room suddenly goes stale. Nick and Marty both visibly stiffen.

When Dave looks up, he finds Mustaine looking back at him with narrowed eyes. For the briefest of seconds, he feels his heart give an anxious lurch.

“Is there something you want to get off your chest, Junior?”

He says it slowly, with just enough softness to be ominous, but his eyes are too glassy for the threat to land properly. If anything, Dave’s molars just bite down harder. There’s a sour taste in his mouth.

“Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe, if you stopped stalking Kirk fucking Hammett for three weeks, you might actually get something done?”

Another stiff silence.

Nick clears his throat. “Should we, uh…”

“Go,” Dave says flatly, waving a dismissive hand. “We’re sure as fuck not getting anything else done tonight.”

Neither Nick nor Marty need further encouragement. The two of them scurry out of the room in record time, and thirty seconds later, Dave listens down the hallway for the sound of the door banging shut behind them.

“You can be a real bitch sometimes, you know that?” Mustaine says in a low mutter, dropping the magazine to his lap.

And that’s— that's _enough_.

“For what, caring about my band?” Dave asks, incredulous.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Mustaine retorts with a sneer. “It’s not my problem you’ve got a stick up your ass.”

The magazine slides off his thigh and onto the floor, but he doesn't even seem to notice. Dave is quiet for a moment. He crosses his arms and plants his feet, looking down at his shoes, ignoring the anxiety prickling at his skin and the voice in his head screaming _turn back now before it’s too late._

“You’re a fucking drunk, Dave,” he finally says. “You’re a miserable asshole, and I’m fed up with it.”

He gives a bitter, ugly bark of a laugh and throws his hands in the air. “I mean, who the fuck gives shit about Kirk Hammett, Dave? Huh? What’s so special about him? We’ve got Marty fucking Friedman right here, all shiny and new, and all you can manage to care about is some guy who plays in some other band.”

Mustaine scoffs. “Hammett’s a stupid fucking twink, he’s not—”

Dave shakes his head and stands up, the legs of his chair scraping against the carpet. They're not going to get anywhere with this tonight; not when Mustaine is looking for a cheap fight. “Fuck you, man," he says. " _Fuck_ you. Call me back tomorrow when you can see straight.”

He almost makes it to the door.

Almost.

Mustaine is deceptively fast, even while drunk. His hand lands on Dave’s shoulder, yanking him back, and before Dave can attempt to right himself, Mustaine's fist is colliding with the left side of his jaw.

The pain is explosive. Dave’s mouth falls open as he stumbles backwards, one hand reflexively raising to cup the side of his face. He doesn't even have time for the blow to fully register before Mustaine is getting in his face.

“You wanna fuckin’ go, Junior?” Mustaine snarls, crowding in with teeth bared like a feral animal. His eyes have that soulless, empty look they sometimes get when he hits the bottle hard.

If Mustaine were sober, Dave knows he wouldn't stand a fucking chance in hell. But like this?

Well, maybe Dave's looking for cheap fight, too.

“Yeah,” he says coldly, hands curling into fists. “Yeah, we can fuckin’ go.”

It’s not the first time Mustaine has hit him, and it certainly won't be the last. Dave’s a farm kid, though; he’s tougher than most people expect. He knows how to take a punch or two and still stand back up.

This is, however, the first time he’s turned around and hit right back.

It’s not an admirable tussle. Dave doesn't have the martial arts training Mustaine does, nor does he have the advantage of size; the only real physical advantage he has is Mustaine’s inebriation, but that’s still enough to give him the confidence to launch himself into battle, gracelessly lashing out at any part he can reach.

 _Use your words_ , his mother used to say.

Mustaine keeps trying to grab hold of him, but Dave is quick to dodge out of his grip. He flails and claws and punches like a child, without any technique whatsoever; even in Mustaine’s drunken state, Dave knows that getting caught in a proper restraint could mean the difference between a bruise on the jaw and a broken arm.

Mustaine lets out a huff of breath when Dave lands a solid blow to his stomach. He bends forward with the force of it and overbalances, briefly stumbling a step or two backwards, then trips and drags Dave down with him as he falls to the filthy carpet.

They land hard, in a heap of limbs, still wrestling. Dave’s elbow makes contact with Mustaine’s nose, and suddenly there’s blood all over Mustaine’s chin, down his cheek, one garish smear running down the skin of his neck. Dave is still on top, thighs clamped tight around Mustaine’s hips, trying to keep the upper hand.

He’s hard.

Mustaine is, too. Dave can feel the thickness of him pressing up against his ass as they tussle, one of his fists clumsily clobbering Dave over the era hard enough to make it ring. They’re both panting.

“Fuckin’ _stop_ ,” Dave snarls, still holding on tight, trying to force him to stay still.

Mustaine spits in his face. “Fuck you,” he growls, slurring the words out, but his struggles quickly begin to weaken anyway. “Fuckin’ goody-two-shoes pansy motherfucker.”

Dave lands another punch to his ribs. Mustaine wheezes, giving one last heave to try and roll them, but Dave doesn't budge.

“What are you gonna do now, fuck me?” Mustaine snarls.

“‘S that what you want?” Dave huffs. Before he can think twice, he’s reaching a hand down between them, pawing at the tent in Mustaine’s pants.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. There’s blood all over Mustaine’s face, his hair in disarray, red patches blooming on his skin where bruises will show up tomorrow, and somehow, he’s still beautiful. Still mouthing off. Still possibly the most damaged and frustrating and stubborn human being Dave has ever met.

Before Dave can think better of it, he’s leaning down and licking the retort right out of Mustaine’s mouth.

His tongue is heavy with the thick, metallic taste of blood and something more — vodka, maybe, and a lingering trace of smoke. Dave kisses him hard until he’s forced to pull back to breathe.

“Is that what you want?” he repeats, panting.

Mustaine grins. His teeth are blindingly, horribly white against the red. “You want me to beg, Junior?”

“Don't fuckin’ call me that.”

“Touchy.”

“Go find someone else to get you off, then.”

“‘M comfortable right here.”

“‘Course you fuckin’ are,” Dave mutters, and then all of a sudden he’s fumbling with the fly of Mustaine’s jeans, ripping them open, reaching inside to wrap a hand around his cock and relishing the grunt he gets in return.

“Tell me,” Dave hisses, leaning in closer, “Did Kirk Hammett ever do this for you?”

His hand speeds up. It’s too dry, too fast, and too tight, but he doesn't give a shit. Mustaine is watching him with dark eyes.

“Did he make excuses for you? Huh? Did he clean your vomit off the floor? Did he spend years of his life defending you, telling everyone you were just misunderstood?”

Below him, Mustaine grunts and twists once more in defiance, mustering the strength to buck up against him. Dave lets go of his dick long enough to grab him by the wrists and slam his arms back down. He feels fucking deranged. His thoughts are warped and clouded by anger, jealousy, and a sense of burning desperation for Dave to finally see past his own nose and realize just how good he has it.

“I’m sick of your shit,” he grits out, leaning in so close their foreheads are almost touching. “I'm sick of your martyr act, and I’m sick of defending you when you don't deserve it. And I’m…”

He swallows, lowering his gaze. “I’m sick of knowing that if Kirk quit today and Lars called to ask you to come back, you’d leave us in a heartbeat.”

He can feel his anger wavering as he looks down at Mustaine below him — at his pale, bloodied skin and the freckles dusting his cheeks, at the vigilant tense of his muscles, at the pitiful scrabble of his fingers against the dirty carpet. His grip on Mustaine’s wrists weakens and falls away as he shifts his hips, reaching back down to grasp Mustaine’s cock anew. 

“You don't need Metallica,” Dave tells him with renewed conviction, his unoccupied hand raising to push Mustaine’s hair back from his forehead. “You don't need them anymore.”

He says it again, and again, leaning in to breathe the words against his jaw like a mantra as his wrist works at a steady pace, coaxing the fight to a finish.

Mustaine’s eyes are dark with an indecipherable emotion when his gaze meets Dave’s. He’s uncharacteristically placid as he lies there, resigned, and lets Dave work him over. It doesn't take much longer before he comes, in any case; his hips shift once, stomach going taut, and then his lips part in a silent, shuddering breath as he spills into Dave’s fist and onto his own torso

Dave sits there for a second, slumped over Mustaine, letting the realization of what he just did sink in.

He should say something, he thinks. He should apologize. He should smooth it over. He should be diplomatic and courteous and affable and continue bending over like he always does.

He doesn't.

He wipes his hand on Mustaine’s shirt, then gets up and leaves, grabbing his jacket on the way out. He leaves Mustaine lying there on the floor with his nose bloodied, pants open, and come drying on his stomach.

When Dave gets back to the studio the following night, the magazine is nowhere to be found.

+

**Author's Note:**

> there should be a law against having two band members with the same name


End file.
